Mr and Mischief (14 page)

Yes.
And it was the last thing she’d admit to him now. She slipped off the stool. ‘Of course not,’ she said lightly. ‘Why should I? I told you I never wanted to get married. And certainly not to you.’ Emily knew how childish her words sounded, but she couldn’t keep herself from saying them. Or the hurt from showing in her voice, her eyes. She hated feeling so vulnerable.

Jason’s eyes narrowed to near slits, his mouth nothing more than a thin line. ‘Then there’s no problem,’ he finally said, his voice so very neutral.

‘None at all.’ Except for the fact that she felt as if she might splinter apart in seconds. Still smiling, Emily turned and left the kitchen. Jason followed her out into the foyer, watched as she reached for her coat and jabbed her arms into the sleeves.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I have things to do,’ Emily said, her back to him, her tone dismissive. ‘I can’t spend the whole day here, Jason.’ She’d spend it huddled in bed with a box of tissues.

‘All right,’ Jason accepted after a moment. ‘I’ll see you at work on Monday.’

Emily didn’t answer because she didn’t know if she’d make it into work on Monday. She had a feeling she might call in sick.

Her back still to him, she jabbed the button for the lift. The silence ticked on between them, tautening with tension and unspoken words.

‘Emily—’ Jason said, just as the lift doors opened. She slipped quickly inside, turning only to waggle her fingers at him as they thankfully closed.

‘Bye, then.’

The doors closed, but not before she saw Jason staring at
her, a hard look on his face, his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to understand just what game she was playing.

Emily sagged against the wall as the lift sped downwards. Hopefully he would never know how much the last ten minutes had cost her.

Jason stood in the foyer, sifting through the last few minutes of conversation. He felt restless and annoyed and, bizarrely, a little hurt. That last emotion was ridiculous, because surely Emily was acting true to form, as he wanted her to. This was a fling, after all. She was … flinging.

So why didn’t he like it?

Why did he feel as if he’d just been dismissed? Intentionally?
He
was the one who walked away, who left after one evening. One night. Yet Emily had just left him. The thought was aggravating. Insulting.
Hurtful.
He turned away from the lift doors, determined not to think of it, or why she’d gone so suddenly. Not to care. He had plenty of things he needed to do today, including drawing up that list of candidates Emily had mentioned. He did, after all, need to find a wife.

Even if the thought now filled him with a restless, aching discontent.

Emily lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her body and mind both ached and she wished she could find some kind of oblivion in sleep, but it eluded her. Her mind continued to run a looping reel of just about every moment she’d ever had with Jason, from that first tender dance to last night’s soul-shattering events. Tears slipped down her cheeks in silent recrimination.

What was
wrong
with her?

She shouldn’t be this sad, this
shattered.
Yet that was how she felt, as if all the secure pieces of her existence, her very self, had scattered and she was left with nothing, empty and aching inside.

Last night had changed the way she thought about life, about herself. The realisation scared her. She’d been
happy
before, content and confident, satisfied with her life. Then a single night with Jason Kingsley had made her feel as if all that—all of herself—had been flimsy and false. She’d been fooling herself all along, and it had taken last night—a night of incredible, intense intimacy, as well as this morning’s hard wake-up call—to make her realise it.

She
wasn’t
happy. She didn’t know what she wanted … from Jason, or out of life itself. This was why she didn’t do relationships, Emily thought miserably. They were either disappointing or devastating. Hugging her knees to her chest, she thought she’d take the disappointment she’d felt in her last two relationships over the swamping sense of loss she felt now. Then she’d been able to walk away with simple disillusionment rather than actual pain.

Now she felt as if she teetered on the precipice of a great, yawning chasm of heartache and it was only her refusal to probe too deeply into her own inner anguish that kept her from spiralling downwards into that endless space.

She didn’t think. Wouldn’t remember. Instead, she slipped down under the covers, pulling them over her head, and squeezed her eyes shut tight. She didn’t know how long she lay there, willing sleep to come, but it finally did, and she existed in a deep, dreamless state where memories thankfully lost their power.

Of course, she couldn’t sleep all day. She tried, but after a while her body’s basic needs compelled her to rise from bed. She had a cup of tea and a piece of toast as she gazed moodily out of her window at a now snow-covered Hyde Park. It was going to be a white Christmas.

Christmas. She was meant to go home for Christmas on Wednesday, but Emily absolutely knew she could not go into work on Monday. She didn’t even know if Jason would be there, but just the possibility was too awful to risk or even
to contemplate. She’d been able to pretend—just—that she didn’t care for a morning, but she couldn’t do it for a whole day. Yet that was what her whole future looked like, day after day of pretending, until her heart stopped hurting and she forgot about Jason Kingsley and the way he looked at her with those glinting eyes, the sound of his dry laughter, the feel of his mouth—

Except she couldn’t forget about him because their families were related. He might even turn up in Surrey at Christmas. The thought of sitting down at the same table and passing the potatoes made her groan aloud.

How could she face any of it?

She’d ring work and say she was ill, Emily decided, and go home early. It was the coward’s way out, but she felt like a coward. She was too cowardly even to face her own thoughts—or heart. She did not dare probe too much about how she felt about Jason, how deep the hurt ran. She was certainly not going to face him.

The thought of home with all of its dear familiarities, her father’s welcoming arms and her sister’s comforting presence, invigorated Emily and she grabbed a case from her cupboard and began to haphazardly throw clothes and cosmetics into it, desperate now to get away. To escape. Again.

Twenty miles from Highfield it had started to snow again, thick, fat flakes that drifted lazily down and completely obliterated the road in front of her. Emily tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her body tense—she’d been tense for hours, an entire day—as she willed herself and her vehicle onward.

When she finally turned into the sweeping drive of Hartington House, its lights twinkling in the distance, the wheels of her car skidded on an icy crust of snow and impatiently she braked and turned off the engine, leaving the car half in a drift. She grabbed her case and headed up the drive,
her feet soon soaked through. She didn’t care. She just wanted to get home.

Her father met her at the door, wearing a shabby dressing gown and slippers. He looked shocked to see her, his eyes widening, a pipe forgotten in one hand.

‘Emily! What on earth! I didn’t think you were coming until Wednesday, darling.’

‘I wasn’t.’ Emily stepped into the welcoming circle of her father’s arms, breathed in the familiar scents of pipe tobacco and aftershave. ‘I just wanted to come home,’ she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. She felt his hands stroke her hair and she closed her eyes, the unshed tears hot against her closed lids.

‘Is everything all right, mouse?’ he asked, using her nickname from her childhood. Emily sniffed and smiled.

‘Yes,’ she managed, and couldn’t say any more.

Henry Wood squeezed her shoulders and stepped back. ‘Well, it’s good to have you. I’m afraid Carly has left for the night or I’d ask her to make up your bedroom.’

‘It’s all right.’ Emily smiled, knowing her father would never have dreamed of making the bed himself. He was dear, but he was also stuck in his old-fashioned ways and he depended on his housekeeper. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

‘We’ll talk at breakfast,’ Henry said and Emily nodded her acceptance.

It felt a little strange to be back in her childhood bedroom, although she’d spent just about every holiday there since leaving Hartington House at the age of twenty. Yet now it felt different, because she felt different, and she wondered if life would ever be the same again.

Had she any idea what being with Jason would mean? Would cost her?

Refusing to think of it any more, she made up her bed and slipped gratefully under the sheets. Sleep, for once, came quickly.

The next morning the sun shone brightly over a world white with snow, and Emily felt her spirits lift just a little bit. Her father was already downstairs tucking into eggs and bacon when she joined him at the table.

They ate in silence for a little while; Henry had never been one to press for confidences. After a moment Emily cleared her throat and, looking at her father bent over his bacon, said, ‘May I ask you something about Mum?’

Henry straightened, his expression one of surprise and, Emily thought, a little pain. Even twenty-two years after his wife’s death, just the mention of her hurt. ‘What do you want to know?’

He’d told her plenty of stories over the years, as had Isobel. Emily was the only one without any memories of her mother, beyond a vague, shadowy yet comforting presence. Yet the stories Henry and Isobel had told had been mostly about Elizabeth Wood as a mother. Now Emily wanted to know what she’d been like as a wife.

‘You loved her very much …’ she began hesitantly.

Henry’s eyes widened. ‘You have to ask?’

Emily shook her head, smiling a little bit. ‘No. I know you did. You always told me how there wasn’t another woman like her.’

‘And there wasn’t,’ Henry said robustly. ‘One in a million, your mother. One in a hundred million. She was perfect.’ He shook his head, his expression fading into a sorrowful reflectiveness. ‘I was a lucky sod, you know, that she loved me back. An old grump like me. She was everything to me, Emily, everything.’

Emily swallowed, her throat tight. ‘You still miss her.’

‘Every day,’ Henry said simply. ‘I’ll never stop. But it’s easier now than it was. Those first few years. Well, you don’t remember, but they were dark days.’ He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t sure I could go on living without her. She was my anchor, my very soul. But I had you and Izzy to look after,
and thank God I did, because I couldn’t ever imagine life without you.’

‘And,’ Emily asked, the words no more than a whisper, ‘do you ever—do you ever regret loving her so much? Since you lost her?’

Henry looked at her shrewdly for a moment before answering. ‘Not for one second. Not one bit.’ He smiled a bit sadly, and Emily suddenly saw how white his hair was, how lined his face. Her father had married late in life and he was already well into his seventies. He looked his age, the years of grief etched on his dear face. Her throat tightened with emotion. ‘Loving your mother was the best thing I ever did, Emily. Don’t ever doubt it.’

Emily nodded, accepting. The risk had been worth it for her father, she knew that. The love he’d had with her mother had been rare, overwhelming, precious. And nothing like what was—or had been—between her and Jason.

Yet that, she knew now, was what she wanted. Love. Romance. To be swept off her feet.

If you’re swept off your feet … you might even fall.

Recalling Jason’s words, she acknowledged how true they unfortunately were. She’d fallen. Hard.

Emily spent the days before Christmas tucked away at Hartington House, grateful to avoid the rush of the holiday season. She visited her sister and Jack at their home in a neighbouring village, a relaxed sprawl of a place where children and dogs ran amok amid the cheerful chaos of family life. She watched their easy banter and their casual affection with envy, a jealousy she had never felt before but had now sunk its razor claws into her soul.

She wanted that. All of it. And she’d never realised how much until she’d experienced a tiny taste of it with Jason. Of course, she knew how appalled he’d be if she were ever to tell him.
That
was not part of his precious agenda. She was the
fling, not the wife. The bit of fun before he settled down, she supposed, and she could hardly blame him. She’d presented herself as just that, blithely informing him that love and marriage were well and good for other people, but not for her. She wanted to have
fun.

Well, she’d had her fun. And in the end it hadn’t been very fun at all.

Would he announce his engagement to whatever practical paragon he chose at Christmas? Easter? Would she have to attend the wedding, smile for the photographs? It was all just too awful to think about, yet Emily spent endless hours torturing herself by doing just that.

On Christmas Eve she was finally forced out of her moody lethargy. ‘I haven’t even asked what we’re doing for Christmas dinner tomorrow,’ Emily said as she sat down to breakfast with her father. She’d bought presents, at least, but she wasn’t feeling very festive.

‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s all taken care of,’ Henry assured her with a wave of his hand.

‘Isobel’s arranging something, I suppose?’ Her sister had always been the organised one.

‘No, no, Izzy’s taking some time off this year,’ Henry said. ‘Actually, we’ve all been invited over to Weldon. Jason’s coming home.’

E
MILY
slid out of her father’s car and gazed up at the ancient, imposing Weldon Manor with trepidation and foreboding. Jason was in that house. Just the thought of seeing him again sent her nerves jangling, her palms sweating and her heart beating far too hard.

‘Ready, darling?’ Henry smiled at her, and Emily was assailed again with how old he looked. He wasn’t quite frail, but he picked his way over the uneven cobblestones of the Manor drive with care. Emily slid her arm through his, steadying him without seeming to.

‘This should be fun,’ she said, attempting airiness. ‘A nice family gathering.’
If only.

Henry gestured to the Land Rover already parked in the drive. ‘Looks like Izzy and Jack have already arrived.’

Fortunately Isobel was the one who opened the door and even as Emily glanced furtively around the huge, soaring entrance hall Jason was nowhere in sight. She let herself be enveloped in hugs and tackled around the knees by her niece and nephew, grateful for the temporary reprieve.

Of course it couldn’t last for ever. This was Jason’s home, after all. His father’s home. Edward Kingsley welcomed them into the front drawing room for sherry by the fire, presiding over the gathering like a king on his throne, polite yet distant,
a little bit remote. A little bit like Jason. Neither man, it seemed, was given to much emotion.

Emily accepted her glass of sherry and stood by the window, half-hidden by the curtains. She looked away when Jason strolled into the room, his manner relaxed and assured. Unlike her.

‘Jason!’ All smiles, Isobel crossed the room to embrace her brother-in-law. ‘We haven’t seen you in an age. It’s so good to have you back.’

‘It’s good to be back,’ Jason replied, kissing her cheek. Emily felt his gaze move over her like a shadow even though she was pretending a deep and abiding interest in the view of the snowy front lawn outside.

She couldn’t focus on her sister’s cheerful chatter; every

muscle and nerve was concentrated on maintaining this attitude of relaxed disinterest. She had a feeling she was failing miserably.

‘And you must see if you can cheer Emily out of her blues,’ Isobel continued playfully. Emily stiffened at the mention of her name.

‘The blues?’ Jason repeated neutrally.

‘Yes, she hasn’t been herself, have you, darling?’ Isobel smiled at Emily, who tried to give her a quelling look without Jason noticing. It proved impossible, or her sister simply ignored it. Isobel pursed her lips knowingly. ‘Is it a man, Emily?’

She felt herself flush and her fingers clenched so tightly around her sherry glass she thought she might snap its fragile stem. ‘No, of course not,’ she said, her voice sounding stiff and awkward. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because you’ve been positively moping. And it’s
Christmas.’

‘Isobel—’ Emily spoke warningly, not that her sister ever heeded such warnings. She was bossy in the most lovable way, yet right now Emily felt like strangling her.

‘Well,’ Jason said, and Emily’s gaze instinctively flew to him, drinking him in despite her intentions to appear unmoved. His cheeks were still flushed with cold, his eyes bright and glinting. ‘We’ll have to see what we can do about that.’ His gaze rested on her, so knowing, so assured, and, panicking, Emily wondered what he could possibly mean by that statement.

‘I’m fine,’ she said rather sharply, looking away again. ‘You don’t need to do anything.’

Edward Kingsley cleared his throat, surely a sign that this discussion was over. Undoubtedly it had become too personal for his taste.

Jason watched Emily walk stiffly from the room, her head held high, her body radiating tension. She’d been jumpy as a cat since he’d arrived. He’d had a lot of time to think about what had happened the morning after their night together, to consider why Emily had left so suddenly—and why he had been so aggravated by her departure.

He wasn’t used to such reflection, and he didn’t particularly enjoy it. He was a man of action, not thoughts. Not words. Words, he well knew, accomplished little. Meant nothing. Made no difference.

He wanted to act, to accomplish and to complete. And after almost a week of thinking about Emily, about that alleged list of wifely candidates, he’d had enough. He knew what he wanted. And he knew what he was going to do.

It was just a matter of presenting his plan to Emily.

Even with Isobel’s steady chatter, Christmas dinner felt stilted. Of course, Jason was used to these heavy silences; they had defined his youth, ever since his mother’s death. His father was a man of few feelings or words, and he’d moulded his oldest son to his likeness. Jack had been the rebel, not Jason.

Yet now he felt more than ever the oppressiveness of his
father’s presence, his silence, the grim dourness of Weldon Manor—all the more apparent when Emily sat across from him, as beautiful and brilliant as a butterfly.

He pictured her moving among the dark, heavy rooms of the house, filling them with light and laughter. If she was willing to let go of some of her childish flights of fancy—and he thought she might be—they could have a good life together. He hoped she would, for once, see sense.

He waited until after dinner, when everyone had retired back to the drawing room. Isobel was putting the baby down for a nap and Jack was deep in conversation with his father-in-law; Edward Kingsley had retreated to his study.

Jason turned to Emily. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk? It’s beautiful outside.’

She looked startled, and trapped, and even afraid. ‘I.’

‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ Isobel said, coming back into the drawing room, now child-free. ‘You can get some fresh air. And I’m sure you’ll cheer her up, won’t you, Jason?’

‘I intend to.’

Emily looked as if she still wanted to resist but, with a shrug she capitulated. ‘I’ll just get my coat.’

Jason waited for her by the back door, smiling easily as she joined him with obvious reluctance and they headed out into the Manor’s landscaped gardens, now blanketed in snow.

It was a beautiful, brilliant day, the sky a hard, bright blue and the air clean and sharp. The trees that lined the stone walk through the garden were encased in ice, every twig and branch glittering with sunlight.

‘Why didn’t you come to work on Monday?’ Jason asked after a few minutes of walking and Emily stiffened.

‘I’m sorry if it inconvenienced you,’ she said stiltedly, ‘but I am entitled to several personal days—’

‘Emily, I’m not asking as your boss,’ Jason cut her off, keeping his voice mild. ‘I’m asking as your lover.’

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly parted. Clearly shocked. ‘I needed some time,’ she said after a moment, her voice low. ‘To think.’

He’d thought, too. He wondered if they’d come to the same conclusions. If they hadn’t, he thought he could convince her with certain … methods. ‘And did you?’ he enquired. ‘Think?’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t say anything more and they kept walking, the only sound the crunch of their boots in the snow. ‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ Emily finally said. Her voice was barely audible, her eyes on the ground. ‘Whatever it is. A fling. An affair.’

‘Oh?’ He kept his voice neutral, waiting to hear what she said. What she thought.

‘No. I’ve … I’ve realised I want something different.’

‘And what is it that you want?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly. ‘The night we had together was pleasurable, Jason, you know that, but—’ She stopped, turning to look at him with heartbreaking honesty. ‘I think it’s better if we just stay … friends.’

‘That is an idea,’ Jason allowed, stopping, as well. He gazed at her, taking in her tousled hair, her wide jade eyes, the lush fullness of her parted lips. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to kiss her until they were both breathless, but he waited. First there were things he needed to say. ‘I have another idea.’

Her eyes widened, her face so open and artless. She hid nothing. ‘You do?’

‘Yes. I want you to marry me.’

Jason’s words echoed in Emily’s brain, but they didn’t make sense. Surely he hadn’t said—hadn’t suggested—

‘What did you say?’ she managed, her voice no more than a thready whisper.

‘I want you to marry me, Emily. I’ve been thinking about it all week and I’ve realised it makes sense.’

‘Makes sense,’ Emily repeated numbly. He sounded so
reasonable.

‘I told you I was looking for a wife—’

‘And you also told me I wasn’t in the running,’ she reminded him. She heard the hurt in her voice and didn’t care. She was feeling too overwhelmed, too incredulous, too
furious
to hide her emotions now.

Jason looked a tiny bit discomfited, but then he smiled easily and spread his hands wide. ‘I changed my mind.’

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ She let out a laugh, abrupt and sharp, like a gunshot. ‘So was that a proposal?’

Again she saw that annoyance flash across his features. She supposed this wasn’t the conversation he’d intended on having.

‘Call it what you will. We’re good together, Emily. You can’t deny that—’

‘In bed, maybe.’

‘Out of it, as well,’ Jason said firmly. ‘I’m not suggesting a marriage based purely on physical attraction.’

‘Oh, no, I’m sure you have several other practical considerations,’ Emily retorted. She was angry, perhaps unreasonably so, but it was better than bawling, which was what she felt like doing, because she hadn’t, in a million years, expected this. Or how much it would hurt.

And she’d thought
making a go of it
was bad. This was infinitely worse.

‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ Jason said calmly. He was obviously on familiar territory now. Emily folded her arms and waited. ‘We come from a similar background, our families are friendly, we’re compatible physically and, I believe, emotionally.’

‘Emotionally?’ Emily repeated in disbelief. It wasn’t a word she’d expected him to use. And as far as
compatibility
went—

‘Yes. We complement each other, Em. We’re different, I know that, but that can be a good thing.’

She didn’t bother asking how. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
I’ll keep you from being completely irresponsible …
‘That’s quite a list you’ve got.’

‘And, most importantly,’ Jason continued, as if delivering the coup de grâce, ‘we’re realistic about love.’

She swallowed. Her heart felt like a stone. ‘We are?’

‘You said so yourself,’ Jason reminded her. ‘You told me you weren’t waiting for Prince Charming to rescue you. You agreed it was overrated. You’re happy as you are.’ He parroted back all the statements she’d given him with such breezy—and false—confidence. Obviously she’d been too convincing; he’d actually believed her.

‘If I’m so happy, why should I get married?’

‘Children, companionship, sex.’ Yet another list. How could he be so sensible—so heartless—about the rest of their lives? About each other?

‘So,’ Emily managed through stiff lips, ‘why did you change your mind? How did I suddenly become so suitable? ‘ Jason hesitated, and for the first time he seemed truly at a loss for words. Emily shook her head. She didn’t really want to hear how he’d made some kind of pro and con list.
Pros: sex. Cons: hopelessly scatty.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to marry you, Jason.’

His brows snapped together. ‘And do you have a reason? ‘

She almost laughed. Yes, she did, a great, big, obvious and awful one. ‘You don’t love me.’ It hurt to say the words, to feel them, because she knew in that moment that she loved Jason. It had been building inside her, the pressure mounting, the knowledge inarguable and consuming. She’d done exactly what she hadn’t wanted to do, and fallen in love. And she’d done it with someone who had no interest in love even as a concept. She’d found that rare, precious thing called love; unfortunately it hadn’t found her.

How had she fooled herself even for a moment that she didn’t love him? Of course she did. That was why she’d been
so nervous about being involved with Jason in the first place, why she’d never been able to forget that dance. That kiss. Why she’d run away the morning after they’d made … had sex. Because that was all it had been. Sex. And she’d been running and hiding from the truth of her feelings, her desires, because she hadn’t wanted to face this moment, when he looked at her with a blank confusion that stated so clearly the idea of loving her hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Jason was silent for a long moment. ‘Anyone can tell you he loves you,’ he finally said.

Except you
, Emily thought miserably. She blinked hard. ‘Well, obviously he needs to mean it.’ She dragged in a desperate breath. ‘And, in any case, it’s not just about words. It’s about feelings and … and actions.’

Jason gazed at her levelly. ‘And what actions have made you think I don’t love you?’

She blinked again, trying to focus. Was he trying to trick her with that question? He was trapping her somehow, Emily could see it in his narrowed gaze, the dangerous glitter in those honeyed eyes. She struggled to frame an honest response. ‘Because this conversation would have gone very differently if you did,’ she finally said.

‘Would it?’ Jason challenged. ‘You came into this conversation with some kind of preconceived notion about what love is, didn’t you? You’d already decided whatever I felt—whatever I did—wasn’t enough. Because you want something more.’ Each word was delivered like a hammer blow, an attack on everything she felt. ‘And maybe you don’t even know what that is, but it’s always got to be more. You want me to tell you I can’t live without you, that life would be hell if you’re not in it. You want roses and rings and maybe even tears. Don’t you?’ His voice rang out, strong and scornful, and yet underneath Emily detected a thread of hurt. And she knew that she couldn’t blame Jason for not loving her; they’d both
come to this sorry point. They simply wanted different things. She was asking for something he was incapable of giving.

She tried to smile and failed. Her lips moved at least. ‘Maybe not the tears,’ she conceded. ‘A sniffle would do. But yes, I do want those things. I want the fairy tale.’